T enderly, he works the curette against the corroded metal, dislodging minute particles of pale green rime. 

- Celadon, like the glaze. I wonder if the chemistry. Oxidation. Corruption. Lay not up for yourselves treasures in the air. 

He pauses and slides his hands over the elegant forms of the vacuum tubes, letting their nibs prick his thumbs. 

- The story of bonds formed and broken in the outer shell, written, scraped away, written again. Palimpsest. 

She is on the futon, its frayed seersucker coverlet baring evidence of marinara and mingled humors, watching and listening to the delicate mouse scratchings, feeling them on her temple and the nape of her neck, giving rise to a sensation near the small of her back which could be traced to some Paleozoic innovation preceding pleasure. 

- Such a boy he is, that look on his face, entranced by his toy. Boy toy. The same face in his 5th grade science class. 

When she was still taking courses, they would spend Thursday evenings sprawled on that futon, watching British mysteries on PBS, feeding each other chocolate-covered-peanuts from a bulk produce bag. The sensibly crafted plots rendered post-narrative by oblivious confectionery kisses. 

"I'll bet you were quite the catch in junior-high." 

- What's she saying now?

"Yeah, B.M.O.C." 

- How can he pick at that thing forever? The big jerk. What would Monica do? Set tongues wagging. POTUS. Together, in a pot, forget-me-nots--wonder if there's any stew left. 

"Do you want anything?" 

"I'm good."